The Dark Years
by balrogthane
Summary: This is just an idea of what the childhood of the boy who grows up to be JC Denton might have been like. Also has a lot of Gunther Hermann in it, cause he's cool.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer  
  
Apparently, these things are important. So I'll just stick this at the front of every story I put out here: this story is not for money ! I am not going to get anything for it ! That should be obvious, seeing as it's here on FF.net, but if it isn't then this makes it clear.  
  
All right, as to ownership-- I own, hmm, a few unimportant characters. I do NOT own Michael or Gunther, nor do I own Deus Ex, nor do I own any rights to it! There.  
  
Now you can read the story. :-)  
  
-(----  
  
Chapter 1  
  
The ground dove away, as if it were flying down instead of the plane flying up. The young boy almost crushed his nose against the glass, his eyes darting across the landscape, scanning every detail. His face remained impassive, betraying none of the exhilaration in his heart. Emotion always got him in trouble.  
  
"Michael!" The boy suppressed a grimace and deliberately sat back down in his seat. The eyes reflected in the mirror conveyed the calculating disapproval from the pilot-- Teacher. He never called them anything but Teacher, it made it easier.  
  
"Have you finished the book they wanted you to read?" Michael resisted the urge to sigh and instead turned back to his French. He had learned German over the last two months, now it was French.  
  
"Je suis heureux," he intoned, reading over the next lesson. "Je suis triste, je suis faché, je suis calme, je suis intelligent, je suis bête..." The list of adjectives continued with no end in sight.  
  
Michael paused in his recitation to make use of his excellent eyesight. He could detect tiny details, including reading lips, out of the corner of his eyes; now he checked to see if Teacher was still looking at him. Seeing that he was out of direct observation, he stole another glance out the window. All he could see now was an endless white carpet under a vast ceiling of clouds, the two reaching out to meet beyond the horizon. The clouds had hidden the ground, and he turned back to his French with a disappointed expression.  
  
Jack Mirants snapped another look at the kid. He was frankly unsettled by now, not least by the kid's insistence on calling him "Teacher." The boy never smiled or frowned, Jack had never heard him make any accidental sound, he never betrayed his emotions, he could even control his pupils. Jack had needed years to learn how to hide his emotions as best as physically possible, but like all humans, his pupils would expand when he was shocked or frightened. Not all humans, he reminded himself-- Michael's only expanded when he wanted them to. Or maybe nothing ever shocked or frightened him. Unnatural, whatever the explanation.  
  
Jack had no idea what this job had gotten him into, but 10 years in the CIA told him he needed to get out ASAP. Before he became a...liability. No questions asked, he'd just drop the kid off with the predetermined contact, get his cash and leave.  
  
________________________  
  
Gunther Herman grumbled under his breath. The airport chairs were too weak for his colossal frame, leaving him to lean against the wall; the sunglasses he'd picked to hide his electronic eyes had gone, over the course of 4 hours, from a mild annoyance to an obnoxious load. To make the situation worse, the plane was delayed now, and he was beginning to have a hard time not being noticed. After all, none of the other people in the terminal were 7 and a half feet tall with a physique Schwarzenegger could envy.  
  
Beyond that, Gunther had long ago exhausted the drivel magazines provided, and was wishing he could do some self-maintenance: one can never take too good care of oneself. But he could hardly start checking joints and action without revealing what he was. Nor could he go over his small weapons cache without causing mayhem. He settled against the wall, feeling it give slightly, and resigned himself to boredom.  
  
He was about to give in and go buy a book when the PA sputtered to life. "Flight No. 53 is now making its approach. If you have family, friends, or associates on board, you may now begin making your way to the 'Arrivals' section of the terminal at Gate 29. Again, Flight No. 53..." Gunther snorted, he'd been in the 'Arrivals' section for the past 4 hours.  
  
A few minutes after the announcement, Gunther noticed a man arrive, puffing after the arduous walk through the terminal. Was this the one he'd been waiting for? He closed his eyes and concentrated, switching from the physical world to his onboard computer. A moment of searching later, he found the information he needed: complete specs on his target, from a picture of his face and description of distinguishing marks to average heart rate. Switching back to reality, he took a moment to use his enhanced vision-- this overweight man was indeed the one he'd been waiting for, right down to the high pulse and body heat.  
  
Gunther snorted slightly, watching as the man only now glanced around him. He'd rushed in, practically asking to be ambushed. Yes, he definitely needed protection. If the person coming in on the plane was as valuable as Gunther believed (this was a class Deep Blue assignment, after all), someone would be interested in him or her. Gunther wouldn't have wagered on this fellow in a fight between him and an angry cat, much less if he was actually attacked.  
  
Now he turned and looked out the window. The plane had finished taxiing, and was hooking up to the walkway now. A few minutes later another man walked through the port. Gunther saw immediately that this man, at least, had some military training. His step was quick and quiet, his eyes were unobtrusive but observant, and the slight swelling under his field coat was undoubtedly a pistol. The heavy man walked sedately towards him.  
  
"Mr. Mirants," he greeted, bobbing his head rapidly. "I'm Fielding. I think I am right in assuming that you have something of mine?" Mirants nodded briskly and turned back down the walkway.  
  
"Michael?"  
  
Gunther perked up. So the valuable person here was probably male, and probably young too, judging by Mirants' using his first name. Michael proved his guess correct when he walked into the terminal, carrying a backpack and a small suitcase.  
  
"So, Michael!" Fielding bubbled. "Did you have a nice trip?" Michael looked him right in the eyes.  
  
"Yes," he replied, monotone. Fielding's smile evaporated to be replaced by confusion. Michael looked away from him to cast his scrutiny on the other people in the terminal. Gunther had assumed a look of completely detached interest, and Michael merely seemed impressed by his size.  
  
"Where are we going?" the boy asked, turning back to Fielding.  
  
"Um, to my car," he answered, worried. "Go ahead down the corridor. I'll follow in a minute." Mirants stood back through the entire conversation, a wry hint of a smile playing around his lips. Fielding had no idea what he was in for either. "Is he always like that?" Fielding asked Mirants in a low voice, as soon as Michael was out of earshot. Gunther decided not to follow his charge immediately; somehow, he expected Michael would easily spot any tail. He turned his attention back to the conversation.  
  
"-the whole flight, though. So I'd guess that's what he's always like. You're here to pay me?" Mirants dove right in, dropping the subject of Michael.  
  
Fielding happily turned to a subject he understood: business. "My employers gave me the number of a private account," he replied, pulling a paper out of his inside coat pocket. "That's your payment-- you can use it for up to one year after this date or until it is emptied, whichever comes first." Mirants took the paper and examined it, and Gunther noticed his eyes widen involuntarily.  
  
"Pleasure doing business with you, sir," he replied crisply, and walked back to the plane. Fielding turned and headed down the corridor after Michael. Gunther waited until just before he turned the corner, then snapped his fingers as if remembering something and followed after. Pretending to be casual had never worked all that well, after all. 


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Michael strode down the corridor, pulling his suitcase. The signs clearly marked the way to the parking, and he never hesitated a moment. Behind him, he felt rather than heard Fielding coming, the man thudded into the ground at every step.

"Michael, wait for me," Fielding called. Michael obediently halted. "Good lad, we're going to the parking lot," Fielding told him when he drew even. "Goodness, all this walking is tiring me out..." The boy made no response to that, just continued down the corridor with Fielding trying to keep up.

It was about then Michael noticed the giant from the 'Arrivals' section. For his size, he walked very quietly-- in fact, almost silently-- even when he was walking fast as he was now. He almost ran past them, heading for the entrance to the terminal, and Michael watched him attentively. The man walked like a soldier but looked like a civilian, with large dark sunglasses and a loose black coat. He turned the corner ahead of them and disappeared, and Michael heard Fielding relax noisily.

"What a bear," he whistled. "Wouldn't want to meet him on a dark night, now would you?" He grinned at Michael, only to remember abruptly what this kid was like when he got no answer. He frowned and quit trying to make friends.

They reached a corner with 2 signs, one pointing to Parking Lot A and the other to B. Michael had seen it much earlier and stopped immediately at the intersection.

"A or B." He did not ask, he just stated.

"B," replied Fielding after a moment's thought.

Michael did not say anything else until they reached Fielding's car, a black BMW with tinted windows. Then, "Do you want me to put my bags in the trunk, Teacher?"

Fielding was confused. "Who?"

"Teacher," the boy explained. "I call all my teachers Teacher. It makes everything easier."

Fielding shrugged. "I'm not really your teacher, but-- whatever you want. Trunk is good." He had decided to stop trying to make friends with the boy, it would never work. He popped open the trunk and the passenger door, then went to get in himself. Michael followed. As the BMW slipped out of the parking space, a somewhat dented old Honda Accord started down the next aisle over.

________________________

Gunther watched the BMW anxiously. Either Fielding didn't know what he was into-- quite likely-- or else he had no idea how to travel in cognito-- also quite likely. That car he was driving was a little too nice for Gunther's comfort: that's why he was driving an Accord. Once the most common car on the road, it was still much less rare than the exotic BMW he was going to be tailing.

He had just finished re-arming himself when Fielding reached his car. He'd had to leave all his normal weaponry in the car, since it couldn't have made it through the scanners: all he'd had in the terminal was his trademark obsidian throwing dagger and a special plastic pistol, designed to slip past anything short of a strip search. Now he had his 10 mm, a gas grenade, and, in the special compartment under the seat, a high-powered 30.06 rifle.

This was his first Deep Blue mission, and he wondered absently why they hadn't given it to one of the higher-ranking agents. It certainly wasn't his low profile, and Ana, not he, was the most rapidly rising agent. Then Fielding floored it out of the parking lot, and Gunther found himself in trouble.

He jammed the pedal to the floor in reflex, but the BMW bolted out of the parking lot, turned right, and slipped through the yellow light. Gunther cursed softly and whipped his car around through the lot. Fool Fielding, what was he driving like that for? The Accord could keep up, Gunther had boosted the engine so much it was the equal of any exotic supercar you care to name, but he had to get close to him to stay close.

The lot stretched a good 5 blocks down along the road. Gunther knew where Fielding would be going, at least if he wasn't a traitor, but he was supposed to stay close to him. "Why, oh why, is he doing this?" he gritted through his teeth when he reached the end of the parking lot. With typical government brilliance, there was only one entry/exit. He toyed with the idea of simply driving over the curb, but if he was supposed to be an invisible tail he could hardly go blasting into the road like that-- even Fielding would notice him.

He eased into traffic, resisted the urge to dive between two slow cars, and saw Fielding turn left up ahead. Why was he turning left? He needed to go straight to reach the train station. Gunther smiled grimly. Looks like their contact's a traitor indeed. He took the first left he reached, then turned back right.

A residential road devoid of moving cars met his eyes. Nor was Fielding's sleek BMW in sight. He paused a moment, decided not to call HQ, and drove on down the street. He had just reached an intersection when the BMW flew around the corner to his right and squealed to an angry halt at the stop sign. Gunther controlled himself and carefully avoided looking at the car directly, hoping not to be recognized. It took a lot of willpower, though, to keep from yelling at the idiot.

He continued down the street in confusion. What should he do? He wouldn't put it past Fielding to have gotten lost, so he oughtn't to simply pull out his rifle and put a bullet through the man's head. Regardless of the mission, they were in a residential area, and Gunther really hesitated to do violence here. On the other hand, what if he was a double agent? This mission was too important for mistakes. Fielding's death would not weigh too heavily on his commanders' minds, he knew, if he killed him in error. But it would weigh on his. Gunther glanced in the mirror and made his decision.

He pulled into the next driveway, easing in until there was enough room for the BMW to pass. It did, with another violent acceleration. After seeing it turn the corner a block away, Gunther pulled back out and followed again.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Michael sat in the back seat of the car. It was a very nice car, with an interior of supple red leather, highest quality so it didn't stick when you sat on it too long. A dozen different gadgets would have had any other boy investigating them immediately, but Michael stayed right in the middle of the seat. Teacher was muttering something, apparently not for Michael to hear, so he didn't listen.

Teacher finished and touched something on the dashboard, then stared out the window for a moment. Michael watched the reflection of his face; it looked somewhat confused, and he wondered who Teacher had been talking to. Then Teacher's face closed over again and he twisted the key hard in the ignition.

Despite Teacher's forcefulness, the car responded evenly, and the pedal-to-the-medal tactics he used did not affect the smoothness of the ride. Michael watched the cars outside until Teacher whipped off the road, then turned and observed the houses they were passing and the cars in their driveways. He noticed that the car in one of the driveways was an exact copy of the one he was in, and its engine was still running as they came up to pass it by; he wondered momentarily why.

An instant later his thoughts were violently changed. Someone in the car did something too quick for Michael to see, the glass in the windshield gave a hollow thunk, and Teacher's entire body went limp. The car swerved violently to the right and smashed into a car parked at the side of the road. Michael's seat belt kept him from flying into the front seat, but he was too intent on what had just happened to notice that or the jerk he'd received from the belt.

Teacher had been killed, again; the second time this had happened. The last time, he'd been a human shield for Michael, and the other guards in the compound had protected him after that; this time, there were no other guards, and he knew he'd have to fend for himself. He unbuckled his belt and prepared to run for it, out the left side door, but before he could even turn the handle someone opened the right door and grabbed his arm. He spun his head around to see a tall, well-built man in a uniform that covered his whole body; a black mask hid his face.

"Don't try that, son," he told Michael, in a low but not unkind voice. Michael felt the strength in his grip and knew he could not have resisted this man even were he older; he left off trying to open the door and sat back down. "Good." As the man closed the door, Michael noticed another man, similarly attired but far shorter, coming around to the driver's side to remove Teacher's body. A third man was apparently still in the other car, as it pulled out of the driveway and headed right, down the street and out of sight. The tall man shook his head at Teacher's corpse and folded himself into the driver's seat.

"Didn't want to have to do that," he said regretfully, watching the short man drag the body away and into the house. "This is more important than one life, though-- more than mine, more than yours." Michael wondered who his abductors were and what they planned to do with him. Since he could not currently escape, he decided to talk with the tall man; he seemed almost trustworthy.

"Did you know him?" he asked. The tall man glanced back at him.

"Did," he retorted shortly. "Now we need to get you to safety." Michael wondered at this, but again did nothing. The man pulled the car out carefully, then turned and followed the same road the other car had taken. One, two, three blocks passed. A park. A lone roller-blader. Then the tall man pulled aside into another driveway, sharing it with a taxi. He slammed the car into park, jumped out, and yanked open Michael's door.

"Get out, now," he said tensely, and Michael slid from the seat and out. The man grabbed him by one shoulder and propelled him into the house, slamming the door with a foot as he did so.

The house seemed deserted. A silent laptop computer, packed up in one corner, provided the total of the living room's decor, and Michael wondered again if this was normal before the man stomped on a floorboard. Its opposite end sprang up, and with that a trapdoor. He reached down and extracted a backpack.

"Change into this," he grunted, handing it to Michael. "Be sure to change everything. Bathroom's right through there," pointing. Michael obeyed. "And don't try to escape!" he added as Michael closed the door.

Michael looked around the bathroom. A shower in one corner, a sink, no toilet-- and no window. He shrugged and changed his clothes; the backpack held a garish outfit, complete with oddly-patterned white shoes and a pair of soft gloves. He packed his suit and fitted it carefully back into the pack.

"Done?" the man called.

"Yes," replied Michael, and opened the door. The moment Michael appeared the man seized the backpack.

"Back to the car." Michael walked to the door without a word, the man's hand firmly on his shoulder. The man flung the backpack into the black car, pushed Michael into the taxi and drove off.

"Where are we going?"

"Do you expect me to tell you?" Michael considered this for a moment.

"Yes. How could it help anyone? I am in your custody, unable to pass on the information; if they come to rescue me they will obviously have known where I am without my telling them." The man laughed bitterly.

"Well reasoned, but I won't tell you. Here-- put this on and lie down for a nap." He handed back an eye-covering headband and concentrated on the steering wheel. Michael deliberated for a moment; he would like to know where he was, and he didn't understand why he needed to cover his eyes, but he knew that, above all else, he needed to get along with his captor. Or captors. If he annoyed them to the point that they killed him, knowing the countryside wouldn't help him. He finally put on the headband and lay down-- but he did not sleep.

---

Gunther followed the BMW through one intersection after another, and the car kept on a course parallel to the main road a couple of blocks over. He guessed and hoped Fielding was just using this quiet street to avoid the heavy traffic; if the man was indeed a traitor, he should have been shot back at the crossroads.

The car reached another intersection. Apparently, Fielding did not think stop signs applied when turning right, and Gunther muttered as the black car accelerated toward the road. Always respectful of the law himself, Gunther stopped just long enough to be legal then chased the escaping BMW.

He nearly lost the car at the stoplight, but a fortunate semi started pulling out before it really got the green and Fielding had to stop. Gunther idled his car up behind the black car, sending silent thanks to the semi's driver, and took a moment to check up on his charge.

A blink and his eyes shifted to telescopic mode, allowing him to scrutinize everything about the car. Fielding, good, body language looked impatient; the child, good, very still.

Very, very still. What if?- he switched to infrared mode, heart beating faster.

Whatever that was in the backseat ahead of him, it was the same temperature as the rest of the car.

Gunther started in shock. A voice somewhere back in his brain began moaning that his career was over, he could be court-martialed and executed-- but he ignored it and focused on his mission. He looked now to Fielding; at least, to the man in the driver's seat. Virtually identical in appearance, from the back, but his body temperature was nearly a full degree Celsius different from Fielding's.

Gunther growled bitterly. His first impulse was to jump from the car, walk to the BMW's window and shoot the imposter. A moment of thinking told him he would do infinitely better to follow to a more secluded area and get all information possible from this man. Then shoot him, perhaps. But his original impulse had almost completely died now, and he never wanted to kill needlessly: no, he would not kill him. He shrugged helplessly, angrily. There was really no other option; he had to follow this charlatan, right into whatever trap might be waiting.

The light changed, and Gunther continued his pursuit.

An hour later, the game was clearly up. The target car had worked its way around the city with no destination, then headed back to the airport, without ever passing through any suitably witness-free area. _Time for desperate measures_-- but he could think of no plan to catch his prey without creating a police situation.

They stopped at another light. Gunther deliberated for a moment, then reactivated his enhanced vision and recorded every scrap of information on the man he could access. That finished, he sighed and activated his internal radio. A beep audible only to him signaled its readiness.

"Headquarters," he stated.

"Hold," the gender-less computer voice replied. Gunther blinked, once; didn't Deep Blue operations get a permanent human on the other end? Another myth dispelled by the reality of bureaucracy. Then a snap heralded the arrival of someone at the other end.

"Gunther."

"I have lost the car," he replied, hoping his accent wouldn't obscure his words to whoever was talking to him; he didn't recognize the voice.

"You lost the car you were assigned to protect?" The voice wasn't incredulous; rather, it seemed to be almost curious. On the street ahead, the light changed, and Gunther went back to following the car.

"Yes. Now I am needing assistance. There is a car identical to the vun I vas folloving, but I cannot find a vay to talk vith the driver vithout attracting police."

Gunther heard something suspiciously like a snicker, and silently cursed his poor English. "I suppose you think we can help you? What information do you need?"

"Any you can give me. I am in car behind the other car, a black BMW. Ve are on-" he peered out the window- "Freedom Street in outskirts of New York. Do you have any information about vhat happened to the car back about 45 minutes?"

The voice deliberated a moment, and Gunther heard the sound of a keyboard. "Actually, they put a satellite on you," the man replied, sounding surprised. "However, your original contact here actually had a heart attack right about the time you mention. I came in a little after, but was unaware of this; there's probably other things available, but I don't know about them or how to access them."

"Vhat do the satellite images tell?"

"Difficult to say," the voice came back after a moment. "Visual is obscured by clouds. None of the specialty wavelengths show anything distinct-- X-rays, ultraviolet, etc. Infrared shows the car pulling into a flat zone, then a slightly different one pulling back out the other side-- no heat differences recorded anywhere within that area. I'd guess they got a shield, so I can't tell you what happened in that spot. I can tell you where it is, though: back on Shady Maple Avenue, between Woody Circle and Leaf Street. Funny names, those..." Suddenly the voice froze. Then, "#*^%! You're on a Deep Blue mission!" Gunther smiled mirthlessly.

"Jah, I am."

"No wonder you have a satellite. Let me call the commander here, I'll get right back to you!" With another beep the connection severed.

_A precious lot of good that did me_, Gunther reflected. He knew where whatever had happened had happened, and these people were clearly quite well-organized enough to remove any clues from whatever he might find there. Nevertheless, wouldn't hurt to check. He hated leaving off the chase, after going through with it for so long, but it couldn't be helped; he pulled off on Shady Maple and cruised down to the flat zone.


End file.
